Free Ghostly Echoes by William Ritter Page A

to predominantly Chinese immigrant families until about the 1880s, when the ungentle gentry saw potential in the neighborhood and bought the property out from under its denizens. Most of the Chinese inhabitants who stayed in New Fiddleham relocated to the burgeoning tenement district a few blocks south. But not everyone left.”
    He put his hands together and bowed respectfully to the hollow. “Tu Di Gong is a modest figure, but a noble one. He’s there now, still looking over his village like a kindly grandfather. That was where they kept his shrine. He serves his little corner of New Fiddleham in whatever ways he can these days, though his influence is overlooked and misunderstood. I find it all too easy to sympathize.”
    We came to the end of the block, where the city opened to accommodate a broad park bordered by streetlights. The sun was setting on us—it was no time to be wandering in the darkest quarters of the city, but the shadows were not so intimidating here. The lamps shone brighter around the park than they did in the rest of the city, and the whole park hummed with pleasant energy.
    â€œThis is Seeley’s Square,” said Jackaby. “Mayor Spade’s only successful foray into his grand electrical city. Do you know for whom the park is named?”
    â€œErm, Mr. Seeley, I presume?”
    Jackaby shook his head. “Not for a Mr. Seeley, nor for any man. The Seelies are kindly fae. They arrived with the city’s founders, long ago, and I do believe they like it here. They and the native manitous might be more kindred spirits than the humans who tell their tales. This park is a haven for benevolent beings of all kinds.”
    He looked out across the open space, and I followed his gaze. I could almost convince myself that I could see what he was seeing. Flickers of light seemed to dance through the greenery—although it might have been nothing more than the bright streetlamps reflecting on the leaves. “People often feel more alone than ever when they first arrive in a new place,” Jackaby continued, “but we are never alone. We bring with us the spirits of our ancestors. We are haunted by their demons and protected by their deities.”
    He took a deep breath and turned to me. “I prefer to walk, Miss Rook, because I appreciate this city—and all the more when it’s being threatened. I like to see the lights all around me and feel the ground beneath my feet. This city is alive. It has a soul, and that soul is a glorious mess of beliefs and cultures all swirling together into something precious and strange and new.”
    â€œLike Monet,” I said.
    â€œNothing like Monet,” said Jackaby. “What’s a Monet?”
    â€œA painter. He’s French. My mother met him once at a gala in Paris. They had a few of his works in the museum back home. He uses a hundred little daubs of color, and then from a distance they all melt into one big lovely picture. When you’re right up close, though, it’s just beautiful madness.”
    â€œOh. Yes.” Jackaby smiled. “Just like Monet. Exactly like that. I prefer to walk because I like to be right up close to the beautiful madness.”
    The museum back home also had cushioned chairs you could take a rest in whenever your feet were sore, I remembered, but I kept that thought to myself. A figure was marching across the park now, making a beeline right for us. “I do believe one of your more colorful daubs is coming to see you, sir.”
    â€œHm?” Jackaby locked on to her and smiled. “Oh, Hatun! Auspicious timing.”
    Hatun could have been the queen of her own kingdom in some far-off land, had the streets of New Fiddleham not needed her more. She was an elderly woman, poor, but with a naturally regal air about her and a domineering presence. As much as she stood out, she seemed equally able to do the opposite, melting instantly into the scenery in that